There are those who hunger for continuity and completeness, or who will want to refer others to the deathless couplets that have so inspired a whole Kilo of MOABites. For their kind benefit, then, the following is laid out in sequence. A couple of verses from Rapaire have been included in parentheses for continuity.

The Ballad of Thirty Two K

We wuz pushing for thirty-two of K My messmates on the thread. We were swollen up, and weak of eye, And sore and weak of head. But they handed out the shifting irons, And the foreman he did say, "Take out and swing this hammer, Jack, For the thirty-two of K."

Now some of us took the handcar out And scooted out ahead, And some of us stood in that burning sun And cussed the whole damn thread. And some of starting shifting track, And eyeing where it lay, And moving rock and hammering shocks, Toward the thirty-two of K.

We were up against a deep shale cut In the hardest kind of soil. And the hammers rang and the rounders sang And the newbies reeled from toil. And we cut a swath like Gawd's own path Through that hard adobe clay. And we doubted hard we would ever see The thirty-two of K.

(Then Amos found some giant powder Jist a-sittin' on a tray And we were afraid, the way he tossed the keg We'd be blown to thirty-two kay.

But he drilled a hole and rammed it full Tamped the powder in without a stay And blew the hardrock all to hell On the way to thirty-two kay.

We mucked out the rock and mud and all And before us a vista lay Of shining mounts and shady vales Downhill, in thirty-two kay.)

Then it's "Heist that gravel and bed 'er down!" And "Tap 'er once and stay!" And the hammers rang as the bright new steel Lined up for another K. Rapaire was there, with his chest all bare. But the Hawk, he stayed away. And the ties went hard down for every yard We made toward another K.

Then the steel spikes sang, as the hammers rang And we locked down another chain And yard by yard, though the work was hard, We built, and ne'er complained. And Still was there, to offer care When a hammer smashed a toe And as it came on night, we saw it right, Where we wuz, and had yet to go.

Come dawn anew, and the whole damn crew Was there, though it cost them sore. 'Cuz we knew that day'd see us on the way An' only a few days more. We could feel it risin' past the dawn's horizon As the sun clocked out the day; Swing the hammer down! Sure as Gawd, we're bound For the thirty-two of K.

There was a hundred and ninety-eight to go, And that's easy enough to say. But lining them out in that red-hot sun Is a different price to pay! "Come and tap those keys!! Bring your Submit on!" The Mother cussed, and yelled. "New posts! New posts" and post we did, For thirty-two kay, or hell.

All night athat night we sang that lay As the moon danced through the trees. Little Hawk even showed up once, With strange scrapes on his knees. And a coupla new guys came around, 'Round the middle of the day, Cuz the din and the drive could not be stayed, Bound for 32 of Kay.

When the wind came up in the afternoon, It was 31-9 or bust! And our hands were scarred from flying grit, And our eyes were red from dust. Still we hammered on with what we had We would not give up the ghost. We knew somewhere in the gloom ahead Was the 32 thousandth post.

So we slammed the hammers down again And we dug the railbed hard. And we tamped and lined and dug again, Sweating blood for every yard. It wasn't love, nor loot, nor dames That drove us so that day; 'Twas the wild-eyed call of Mom--sweet Mom! For the thirty-two of Kay.

(Amos dropped down where he stood, Laying hardbed rail And I couldn't him out at all 'Cause I was blasting shale. So the Rounders tossed him in a hole And stood around to pray Then shoveled fill on top of the boy On the road to thirty-two kay.)

At thirty one and eight nineteen The hands were feeling dry, There was dust in all their crevices, And dust filled up the sky. Then someone hollered "There's a light!" And damn if it wasn't so! A single solid golden beam Pointing straight to the earth below.

Then thunder cracked and the light grew strong, And a great split opened the land!! And Amos walked right out of that grave, With a fifth of rum in his hand!! There was shouts and hollers from all hands, Mostly asking for that rum. ANd the boys were ready to kneel and pray, If he'd only give them some.

So we finished that fifth and we cinched our belts, And we turned to the rail once more, Though our hands were chapped, and our fingers bled, And our arms and backs were sore. And as evening came across the land, The dust stole off with the day. But we never slowed, not a single hand, Bound for thirty-two of Kay.

One fifty-nine of empty posts Haunted us through the mist As the night moved off and the silver dawn By sunrise just was kissed. And through the chill of morning dew Into the heat of the day We sweated under ever tie For the 32 of Kay.

The future line was clear to see A long and empty line. And the posts we knew we needed were One hundred fifty nine. But not a word of sloth or ire Had any man to say, As we slogged along in one desire Toward the 32 of Kay.

And slow--so slow!--the posts went by Each with a terrible weight The empty miles ahead ticked down TO one hundred fifty eight And ticked again as each man stood And had his noble say One fifty left! We're on the path! To the 32 of Kay.

The valiant band of MOABites Posted of many things; Of cooking sauce and bookmobiles, The divinity of kings. Of man o' wars and men of peace And what was worth the pay; And what we'd see when we crested o'er That 32 of Kay.

By dawn next day the Hawk was back, Riding on his bikey The scars on both his knees had healed, If not those on his psyche. He'd gone to see a guru-man All balding, fat and gray, While the rest of, why we just dug on For the 32 of Kay.

The sun it got to bold Rapaire So we put him on the shelf; He'd started calling himself names, And was quite beside himself. But he'd made posts of good BS, In a bold and noble way, So we let him fall back, and took up the slack, Bound for 32 of Kay.

(One-sixteen , me lads and lasses!!! Breath and push, and move your asses! Dumb or not, guested or hosted Cheers to she who has often posted!

Onward! Onward! Raise the call, Bring the dweeb from down the hall! Bring your cousin, silly bitch, Just to render MOAB rich!

Bring your banker, tailor, lawyer! Call a plumber or a sawyer! One-sixteen!! We're on the way To reach the fabled next of K!)

The shadows stole along the rails As the day began to wane. And each man and woman solemn swore They'd do it all again They'd undergo the backbreak work, The splinters, dust, and pain, To lay the way to the next of Kay For the mighty MOAB train.

And as the rugged, ragged thread Grew longer, post by post, We smiled, although our fingers bled, And traded jibes and boasts We had only ninety-eight to go, One more long night to haul, 'Til we'd see that shining bullet fly, The Mother cannon-ball.

So we heisted up and turned back to, And hauled another span. Each one who vowed to see it through, Each woman, and each man, Though fingers worn and eyes were sore And lives in shards did lay, Would post, and post, and post again For the Thirty Two of Kay.

The count was down to seventy-eight When the wind began to blow. The red dust flew to the skies on high And ruined our hopes below. The air was thick as an old brick wall And it slammed our bones with pain. And we thought we'd never gain a yard, Or ever post again.

And every hand who could even move Was huddled behind a rock As the wind blew through like a hurricane No hand of man could block. We was lying low, ducking from that blow, And we feared we'd starve in the dark. When through the screaming gloom appeared A figure, tall and stark.

We heard him scream into that blow, "Goddam your eyes and all!" And saw him stagger to the rail, Stumble, and lurch, and fall. And we saw him scramble and rise again And grab the line and cuss, Hammering down in that screaming squall, "Gimme 32 Kay, or bust!"

Then that shadow yelled like a fiend from hell And he grabbed a rail and hauled While his clothes were shredded and his skin was too, By the force of that awful squall. And the hands looked out as that rail went down, And he hammered it onto the ties. And they wept to see old Amos win, Or from wind and dirt in their eyes.

So another chain was laid out true In the face of that living hell, And the winds went home, cuz they knew the truth, They'd been beat, any man could tell. So the hands crept out as the wind died down And a couple of chimps joined the fray. And they all turned to with a post or two, For the sake of 32 K.

When the toll crept down to sixty-six, The tired sons of Mother Were growing faint and querulous And snapped at one another. Their tongues were sharp, their tempers frayed, As might happen the same to you, And their weary ears were tired of The number, "32".

They'd done their turn, worked through the night, And through the follering day. Their backs were sore, their pants were worn, And they still weren't all the way. So you cannot blame those noble folk For feeling sharp, that way. They'd earned it all, in the service of The thirty-two of Kay.

Count thirteen!! The cry rang out, Up and down that hard-steel line! We're coming through! Look out below! We're making up our time! Tap her and leave her! cried the boss, Bring down another dray!! We're slapping steel at a terrible rate Toward the Thirty-two of K.

Then the sun came up on Saturday And the crowd began to forming It was strange to see them out of bed So early in the morning. The gang that made the steel rails fly They didn't much note, or care They were calling out for rail and spikes Through the Saturday morning air.

The rails were counting down to home THey knew they'd see that line! You could hear it in their steely ring And see it in their shine. Why they almost laid themselves out straight One old hand was heard to say. As if they knew they were getting close To the Thirty Two of Kay.

Another tie! Another spike!! Come and bring that hammer down! And another steel nail found its home In the cold and wintery ground. Press on! Press on!! It's coming soon! The village wives did pray. As the gang worked down the final slope To the thirty-two of Kay.

Then from over the mountains, back in the hills There floated a strange new sound. A lonesome drifting kind of song, Like a timberwolf's sad moan. It floated down from those distant hills Where we'd spent those sweat-stained days, And it cried as a ghost might moan, "Make haste!" "Make the thirty-two of Kay!"\

The citizens watching down below All froze with a look of fear. They wondered at that weird cry, And the children cried in fear. And the men and women at the rail Just doubled their speed once more. For they knew the sound of the MOAB Train Crossing thirty one five oh four.

They knew the hour was drawing near When their work would win, or die And they knew they had to finish that line Where that mighty train would fly. For she would not stop, she could not stop Once she started the long, long grade That led down from those towering mountain heights To the Thirty Two of Kay.

Then the last rail settled into its bed. The bumpers stood like soldiers. The last sharp spike was hammered in, And the crew boss yelled, "Now, hold her!" Then out of the mist and down the grade Came a blur like the break of day! As the MOAB engine and ninety cars Rattled home to Thirty Two Kay.

When epic deeds are done, my lad ANd epic songs are made, There are always some who stand apart And loiter in the shade. There always a few who fault the harp Or the poet's manly verse But their carping never seems to help. It only makes things worse. Let he who complains take the burden on Of crafting the theme and the line And put in his time in working hard To ease his plaintive mind. Your criticisms do not add A bit, or whit, or jottle, For there is not stopping the MOAB train Or the crew that mans the throttle.

Yeah? Let's SEE that license, rhyme-boy. It better be issued by the International Brotherhood of Poets and Other Poverty-Stricken Folks and stand up to the usual tests. Cuz if it don't...you're gonna be strung up by your iambs, capiche?

That license number was issued to William Topaz McGonagall, rhyme-boy. The GREAT McGonagall, the Bard of Dundee.

The Geheimenpoetrypolizei are coming for you. They are going to hoist you up by your iambs and read you the entire opus of Julia Moore!! Then, when you are a quivering mass of an unsound Alexadrine, they will kick your crambo until the aisling comes out!

Could this finest of rhymers, have had wee too much scotch in his haggis (crack variety) when he went a ploug'in?

Even Stomp'in Tom didn't ryme that much when " tight" on Skinners Pond 'shine....and, especially not when encountering a mouse. (probably wouldn't have sold many songs with that, matey). Though, Tom likely wouldn't have the guts to eat the foul smell'in stuff.

I have it that William Topaz McGonagall's style was fashoned after Roberts. In fact, I have it that they were cousins....William having been willed a kilt frequently worn by Bobby when plough'in...maybe even encountering a mouse. ( Scotch and haggis drool stains are said to still be on it. But, I can'na reveal me sources, for fear of getting a haggis parcel bomb in the mail).

TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785 by: Robert Burns

His shots are blank and blank his look. Blank the expression, blank the book. Blank is the blanky by his side Blank is the sky, when out he rides. And when in town upon mare's shank The townfolk yell "Blank blankety blank!" Yet heaven have we still to thank For this imaginary friend, so blank. We know him to be safe, our cobber 'Cuz there just aren't any blank robbers. Harsh words may bring on blows or spanking, But never just standing there and blanking. Let us be grateful and give thanks Our friend's whole life is filled with blanks.

The Great Tragedy of All Hallow's Eve is that so many people invest so much in becoming Someone They Prefer, whether a Princess or an Oreo Cookie or A Brayve Knighte. And then they are lured with sweets into a sugar frenzy unto a deathlike unconsciouness. When they wake up, lo!! Hallow's Day has come, and they are the very same person they were before the whole thing began.

Then they wait a year and do the whole thing over again, like little Hamlet Sisyphi on a turning Hamletster Wheel of Life. Pant, pant,. pant. Strive to Be and fall back. Over and over. I tell you it is a grim scene, and it is a darn good thing we have love, summer and fucking in between, to dull the sharp suffering of this wicked endless loop.

This year I turned off the lights and hid at the back of the house. The one time I turned on lights, to allow my next door neighbor to find her way to my rosemary bush to cut some for the chicken she was roasting, a car pulled up at her house and started to unload kiddos. We had to shout over that no one on our end of the block was doing trick or treat. They loaded up and drove up the block. What ever happened to just walking around in your own neighborhood?

However, were I to do Halloween, I think I'd answer my door as Florence Foster Jenkins. That would scare the bejeezus out of the tots, wouldn't it?